I have 61 stories published in
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had the old musty smell of damp fur as he prowled the shopping precinct, nosing in waste bins for scraps of some lost life or leftovers to build a future, circling round the shoppers
It stared up at me, the lidless eye in thick white fat, a fixed look of one-eyed surprise. The object was dissection, to get at how this unseeing eye worked, peer and poke
I imagine Kafka after the night-shift In the Workers' Accident Insurance Institution Slouching home through the cobbled streets, Haunted by numbers. So it was no surprise one winter’s eve
There’s violence lurking in the breakfast things. Forced to feed in the company of strangers - no-one fits their mug-shots yet - sore bears kicked from slumber snarl
The men stood either side of each other, thick gloves clutching four corners of thin air. It seemed strange that nothing could be such a weighty matter,